The Telephone Game
by CrimPysche
Summary: Or, How Everyone Found Out that Sherlock was Alive. Secrets don't keep long in London. Sherlock's trusted his secret with one Molly Hooper, but sometimes, secrets aren't meant to be kept. And once one person is told, the entire world must know. (No ships, rated T for language, Post-Reichenbach!)
1. Greg

((_Hi, everyone! This isn't going to be a shipping fanfiction, so if you're into that, you should probably head off to one of the brilliant shipping fanfics on here! This one's Post-Reichenbach, very angsty, and I'm quite keen on it already! Leave a review if you wish, but thanks for just reading! ))_

"Don't be an idiot. It's not blood." Sherlock responded to the mortician sitting across from him. They were sitting together in Molly's flat. He'd never been there before, although he had deduced earlier on that the light in her loo was out and she had a cat. That cat which, at that point in time, was bumping its head into Sherlock's leg insistently.

His eyes glanced down around the cat. He had fallen from a building just hours before, and he hadn't washed off all the fake blood from his face yet. Yet Toby was still asking to be petted, and Sherlock, awkwardly, reached down to stroke its back. Molly made a frustrated noise and reached over to wipe the blood from his face again. The glare that he sent her was so dark and annoyed that she sat back immediately, a subordinately concerned look on her face. "Right. Um. I'll just…leave you to your own devices, then. " She got up from her spot and straightened out her trousers, flicking her hair behind her hair. Sherlock noticed that, once again, she reapplied her make-up and put her hair in the way that she deemed most attractive.

She had saved him from actually having to die and she was still attempting to preen and primp for him. It made Sherlock smile at her, although he couldn't guarantee that, with the blood on his face, it didn't look gaunt. As she opened the door to leave, Sherlock raised a hand and caught her arm. "Thank you, Molly. Sincerely. I do not know what I could ever do to repay you."

Molly let out the brightest smile Sherlock had ever seen. It was so cheerful and so keen that Sherlock found himself returning it. "Oh! No, no, no thanks at all, Sherlock! I mean…if I hadn't, you would've _died, _and London couldn't lose Sherlock Holmes, could it?" With that, she withdrew himself from the room, and Sherlock was left alone.

Toby looked at him keenly from the bed, and meowed once.

Sherlock reached for the wash basin in the loo and started to scrub the drying blood off his face. He looked at himself in the mirror and he detested what he saw there. Of course it was selfless. The most selfless thing Sherlock had ever done, or likely, ever would do. And yet he felt sick at himself for lying to John. The entirety of London he could lie to. Easily. But John had looked at him with such an expression, visible even from the rooftop, and then they'd both been on the ground, and _John… _

No. He couldn't think about it now. It was impossible to know what would happen. All Sherlock knew was that he couldn't come back. John would never forgive him for what he had done. There was a plane scheduled tomorrow, and he fully intended to never come back to London.

That notion, understandably, frightened him. He'd always known London. London was his home, and he felt the most sentimental, pathetic feelings for the beautiful city. Not to mention that London had every person Sherlock Holmes liked. As he scrubbed away the last of the blood from his face, he felt a few tears roll down his skin. He didn't make a comment on it to Toby.

…

When Molly woke up in the morning, Toby was insistently butting his head against her arm. That was the normal morning routine, really. Toby woke her, she fed Toby, she got ready, she headed off to work. Bit dull, maybe, but who said things couldn't turn up? Crazier things had happened. She'd helped a bloke fake his own _death _yesterday, certainly she could get a boyfriend before she turned thirty.

Maybe.

"Sherlock, do you want anything? Did I wake you? Sorry, I don't know if-" Sticking her head inside the door, Molly was met with an empty room. Sherlock had left. The room was immaculate, as was the washroom. The bloody duvet was even folded correctly. Even though he had been a hospitable guest, Molly immediately missed his presence ( more than her silly schoolgirl crush would warrant, anyhow ). She wasn't exactly religious, but she prayed regardless that Sherlock would be okay.

The rest of the day was a tad bit like hell, or rather, what Molly imagined hell would be like. Yarders were swarming all over the morgue. Inspector Lestrade was absent, but Sally Donovan was boasting about a promotion. And everywhere, _everywhere, _there was talk of the fake, dead freak. Molly wanted to scream. They were poking about the dead bodies, inquiring her about her relationship with Sherlock, and worst of all, asking if it was true.

Was Sherlock Holmes a fake?

Sherlock had told her to say yes. So Molly said yes.

When her shift finally ended, Molly didn't waste any time in getting the hell out of there. The rest of the Yard remained, and probably would stay there until morning. It was the biggest case of the century, after all, certainly outshining the stupid Moriarty missing jewels case. Sherlock Holmes. Solver of cases for kings, politicians, and paupers alike. A fake. Worse yet, probably a criminal.

God, Molly wanted to cry or punch someone, and she wasn't sure which she preferred yet. She was under scrutiny, too – who wouldn't notice the mortician's stupid crush on the fake? But after putting on her best stuttering, mousy voice, Molly was sure that she was no longer a suspect.

She made her way back home and let herself in. Toby greeted her, as he always did, weaving about her legs as he requested a second meal. "No, Toby." She smiled down at him, leaning down to gently caress her head. "The vet says you're getting a little tubby. Can't have that, can we?"

And suddenly it became very, very evident that Toby wasn't asking for food. The cries became louder, the weaving about her legs grew to the point where Molly was sure that the cat was trying to trip her. Eventually, as she entered the kitchen, Toby just threw up his back and let out the first hiss she had ever heard from the feline.

"Toby, what's gotten-"

"No harm meant, doll. You just knew him." Suddenly there was a knife at her neck and a large figure standing behind her. "Now, I'm going to ask you _real _nicely. Where has the little bastard run off to? Come on, I know you know." The man's aftershave was overwhelming and Molly coughed out. Apparently, he took that as a sign of insubordinance. "_Tell me, bitch!"_

It wasn't that Molly thought of herself as a particularly weak woman. Hell, she dealt with Sherlock Holmes every day, or rather, had dealt with him. She did autopsies. She'd broken up with James Moriarty. She had faked a man's death. But she simply wasn't _used _to situations like this. Still, though, she figured she might as well play dumb rather than admit that he hadn't told her. It wasn't like it mattered. She'd be dead, anyway. "_Sherlock Holmes is dead!" _

The man gave a grunt and suddenly Molly felt the knife dig a light cut into her neck. Suddenly she was gasping out and crying at the same time, and she finally cried out, "_I don't know! He didn't tell-"_

Suddenly the man gave one of the loudest screams she had ever heard. It chilled her to her every bone. She immediately whipped away from him, falling against the wall. What she saw terrified her.

Toby.

Toby had jumped onto the man's back and was currently scratching the hell out of him. As the man whipped around, trying to get the hissing cat off his back, Molly saw the glint of dog tags.

So, a man who had fought in the war, but couldn't handle a cat? Molly smiled despite herself, but then reached underneath the sink.

It was never to be said that Sherlock didn't care about her. Perhaps he didn't _feel _anything for her, but he did care. And, one memorable birthday, he'd gotten her a nightstick and told her that, given that she knew him, there came a very real possibility one day that she'd need it. And she needed it now.

One swift crack to the back of his head. The man swore but didn't go down, instead reaching behind him and tossing the cat against the wall. He stared at Molly.

The look in his eyes was terrifying. Cold and dark, not unlike the certain flashes she saw in Jim from IT's eyes.

No. James Moriarty's eyes.

He ran out without another word.

The raw smell of blood tainted her nose, and she raised a hand up to her neck. The fingers came away bloody, but her concern was immediately drawn to Toby. She fell to her knees beside her cat and reached a hand down to pat the tomcat's head. "Toby? Toby, please, are you-"

There was a meow, and a purr. Toby, shaking off his temporary stun, struggled to his legs and butted his head against the woman's chin. Molly wrapped her arms around the cat and sobbed into his back, curling up so that her back was against the wall. Finally her fingers found the mobile in her pocket and she dialed the only man she could think of that could help. John would be grieving, still, and she'd never been on close terms with Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson couldn't put up a fight if he came back.

"G-Greg." She sobbed into the phone, clutching the mewling cat closer to her. "Please come over. Someone's b-broken in and…I'm okay, Greg, I'm okay, but I just…I just need…and I can't trust the Yard right now. Not with this…_Sherlock business. _Please."

There was the muffled sound of swearing on the other side of the mobile. "Molly. I'm on my way over. Keep calm, yeah? Just keep calm. It'll all be okay. Yeah?"

"Y-yeah."

It seemed ages until Molly heard a car stop in front of her flat, and Toby was starting to wriggle uncomfortably in her arms. Molly finally let him go and brought her knees to her chest. She put her head down into her knees and _sobbed _as she heard Greg climb the stairs, and soon, there was a panting individual kneeling down next to her.

"Molly. God, Molly. Are you okay?" Greg's voice was calm and insistent, one thick hand going to rest on her shoulder. Molly didn't even hesitate. She threw her arms around the man's shoulders and squeezed him tightly. Her hands were desperate, clutching Greg against her so tightly that the man nearly fell forward. When it became apparent that Molly wasn't going to talk, Greg continued to. "It's okay. He's gone now, Molls. Everything's okay. I'll stay here with you for the night, how's that sound to you? It's okay. You're a brave girl, Molls, and Toby's a good cat. Everything's okay."

Molly didn't knew what drew her to start talking about Sherlock. Hell, she should've been thanking Greg. Greg was being so nice, and so kind, and she had no doubt that the man was grieving, too. "I…he wanted me to tell him where…where Sherlock was, and I…_Greg…" _

"H-hey." Greg's voice broke a bit when Molly mentioned Sherlock's name, and suddenly, she was being squeezed tighter against him. "Don't worry about what he wanted. All that matters is that he's gone now, yeah? And we've got to pick you up, that's all." He leaned away from her and gave her a wide smile. "We can't all be Johns and Mycrofts, can we? Calm and stoic, all the bloody time? Sometimes we've gotta admit we need help, yeah?"

That was about when Molly realized that Inspector Lestrade was crying along with her. Molly cleared her throat and nodded, detaching herself from Greg's arms. God, Greg was a brilliant man. "Y-yeah. I suppose. But…Greg, I should've been able to stop him. Sherlock would've been able, John would've been able, even Mycroft would've…"

"Are you mad? You _did _stop him, Molls." Greg gestured to the night stick on the ground and smiled at her again. "I bet you gave him one hell of a concussion, too."

"Y-yeah, but they've…they would've been able to hurt him…I didn't even _kill _him, Greg…they would've been able to do it without losing themselves like t-this." Molly sobbed into Greg's shoulder. All the stress, all the worry, all the panic that had followed Molly after the past few days eventually just came out of her. "I'm a mess. I'm pathetic. I don't know what I've gotten myself into. Mousy little Molly…"

Greg shifted so that Molly was suddenly pulled into his lap. She got the strange feeling that Greg had little sisters, and that this was similar to how he comforted them, too. "Don't say that, Molly. We've all been under a hell of a lot of pressure the past few days, what with Moriarty and then…well, Sherlock. And frankly, I'd rather prefer you not being a ruthless killing machine like the others. It's nice knowing that some people still think sentiment, that _caring, _is an advantage." One thick hand was going through her hair, smoothing it.

Although her eyes were shut, she could sense when Greg's eyes fell to the thin ribbon of blood around her neck. All of the air left him in a hiss, and his arms tightened around her. "We'll get you cleaned up. Come on."

Then Molly was being carried by Greg, and she looked up at him with a mixture of surprise and mild fear. He smiled down at her reassuringly, and soon, she was sitting on the edge of her tub. Greg was on his knees in front of her. "This might sting. Put a bit of alcohol on it. I don't know what sort of knife he was using on you, don't want to be _too _careful, eh?"

Molly's fingers tightened on the edge of the tub as the alcohol stung her. "He…he was in the Army. Had some…dog tags. Probably…he probably knew Moriarty, that was why he wanted to know where Sherlock…ah!...went. Maybe Mycroft w-would know?"

"Look at you. Guess you learned a thing or two from…" Greg's smile vanished off his face, and he shook his head once. "Yeah. I'll go get Mycroft tomorrow. We were supposed to head out to lunch, anyway. This entire thing's a mess, Molly. An entire bloody mess, and I swear to God it seems like London's gone to shit in a day because of it."

"H-how do you mean?"

"I've been put on temporary suspension for helping out Sherlock, but that's not the worst part. The news has been having a bloody ball with it, and it's only gone worse now that John's refused to give any sort of statement on him. Won't even post on his blog anymore. And it seems like half the royalty of the entire bloody world got something from Sherlock, and Mycroft's been running ragged because of it, not even getting into that it was _his bloody brother _that offed himself. And Mrs. Hudson's acting like she lost a son, and…it's shit, Molly. It's proper shit."

Molly stared mournfully up at him, and she made a decision, right then and there.

To hell with Sherlock. To hell with what Sherlock wanted, to hell with what Sherlock asked her to do, to hell with Sherlock's orders. People cared about him, and they were all going to be in danger because of him. They deserved to know.

As Greg finished cleaning up her neck, Molly sniffed and finally put herself together. "I…Greg, I just…"

"I miss him, you know. Didn't think I would, but…I do. I properly miss him."

Molly shook her head. "Greg, he's not…he's…"

"And I know I wasn't his best mate. I can't even imagine what John's feeling right now, or his brother, or Mrs. Hudson…Christ."

And then Molly told him.


	2. Mycroft

_(( Hello, everyone! Chapter 2! I'm out of school for summer holiday, so I don't have any days that are better/worse for me to write. So they'll be horribly random, I'm afraid! I had to rein back my Mystrade fangirl part of my soul because I really do want to keep this no-ship story. I do hope Mycroft as a character turned out okay. It's easy enough to write characters as they're portrayed in the show, but their personalities change given different situations and all that jazz. I'll stop rambling, promise! Leave a review if you want, but thanks for reading!))_

Greg had ended up staying the night. Molly had never asked him to, and after she had explained everything, she seemed more put-together. But Greg didn't miss the minor look of gratitude she flashed him as he offered to take her sofa. If there had been more danger, Greg would've damned all propriety and had just taken up in Molly's bedroom, but he figured that they were both alright now.

Besides, he needed time alone to think.

Sherlock was _alive. _That one statement sent such a shock through Greg. Molly had explained it all through sniffles and sobs. Of course there'd been anger. Not necessarily for himself – of course he'd been suspended, and he might very well lose his job in the future. He'd known, though, what danger he was taking when he took Sherlock on.

He was angry because of everyone else, most notably John. John had never understood, and perhaps would never fully understand, how glad Greg was that Sherlock had him. Sherlock was _human _with him, and perhaps Sherlock would have his fortieth birthday with John Watson around. And then Sherlock had just left him. Left him to go gallivanting about not-even-Molly-knew-where. That left him grinding his teeth.

With John, there was also Mycroft. Mycroft was intelligent, massively, grossly, brilliantly intelligent – Greg had seen him at it, and he'd offered once or twice, jokingly, to trade Sherlock in for him. However, he also had one thing that he saw as his chief flaw – his brother. Too kind, too caring, too lenient. Greg had been around Mycroft loads ever since the suicide, and Mycroft didn't let anyone see how much it affected him. But it did affect him.

And, hell, Mrs. Hudson had lost a son.

He just relaxed on the sofa and stared up at the ceiling, counting the little cracks in the wall. Tomorrow, he'd see Mycroft. Molly had made him swear, up and down, not to tell anyone. Greg wanted to respect that, he honestly did, but it was Sherlock's _brother. _

Then something occurred to him.

Mycroft was _brilliant. _

Certainly brilliant enough to see through his brother's fluke of a suicide.

Mycroft _knew. _Mycroft was just putting up a _front. _Mycroft probably thought Greg was _stupid _for not figuring it out sooner, and having a right old laugh at Greg's expense.

And so, irrationally, stupidly, blindly, he got angry at Mycroft.

It wasn't as if he got any proper sleep that night, and he doubted Molly did, either. Once or twice he heard muffled sobs from her room, and he wanted to get up to help her, but he didn't. He didn't trust himself to keep his voice down and to keep himself calm. It made him cringe inwardly, but the last thing he wanted to do was upset Molly even further.

When morning came, Greg got up and greeted Molly warmly. He made breakfast for her, ruffled her hair in the most familial of manners, made sure she was alright, made her swear to call him if anything happened, and then he left. She had asked him, once more, to not tell anyone about Sherlock's secret. She said that the consequences might very well be deadly.

Greg said of course he wouldn't.

He had returned to his flat. His wife had gotten most of the property in the divorce, leaving Greg with a shabby flat, a stubbly face, and a predilection for drinking. That had mostly gone away, ironically following Sherlock's death. Mycroft had a lot to do with that. Every other day Mycroft was inviting him over, for lunch, for tea, for a chat. Greg grit his teeth again. How many times had he sat across from him, exposing his heart, and Mycroft hadn't said a _word? _

Regardless, he showered and changed. A bit of cologne was put on and he made breakfast for himself. He didn't like staying too much in his flat, really. It depressed him. Reminded himself of his failed marriage and of Sherlock. Worried him about whether he'd keep his job in the future.

It didn't take long to get to Mycroft's home, though, as per the man's request, he parked around back. He didn't take offence to Mycroft's request. It was common sense. If anyone saw a patrol car at the Holmes residence, they would be no end of the talk. He smoothed down his shirt and trousers before going up to Mycroft's door.

_Hey. Sherlock's alive. Bastard._

_And here I was, thinking you cared about people._

_Do you realise that, for the first time in your bloody life, you could've been the one to _help _make people feel better?_

He didn't say a word as Mycroft opened the door. Mycroft looked tired – he had put a bit of foundation under his eyes to hide the bags, but from that close, they were obvious. His suit was still impeccable, but when Greg looked down, he saw that the man's socks weren't matching. For Mycroft, that was akin to opening the door stark naked.

Despite his anger at the man, his gaze softened at him. "Hey. Sorry, I'm late. Something came up."

Mycroft offered him a small, insincere smile. "Think nothing of it, Inspector. I trust Molly is feeling better after her home invasion? She was not hurt seriously, so I imagine it is only a bit of emotional trauma."

Yes, Mycroft was intelligent.

Greg had learned not to ask why. The man disliked describing his methods. "Yeah. Poor love. She hit the bastard with a billy club and he ran off. Wanted me to ask you if you had any ideas? He was a military man, knew Moriarty, wanted to know about Sherlock?"

Mycroft stiffened at the last word, and he beckoned Greg in. The Holmes residence was large, but it always had an eerie loneliness to it. It was usually dim, and Mycroft usually had a bit of alcohol out somewhere or other. "I…I would have to research the matter further, Gregory, but I cannot possibly imagine why that man would want to know about my…deceased sibling."

Greg thought that a blatant lie. Mycroft must've known Sherlock was alive, and now he was lying to his face about it. By that point, they were both sitting in Mycroft's sitting room. Two steaming mugs of tea and a few biscuits were on the table. He'd taken his mug and sipped at it, noting how Mycroft had prepared it. But he just couldn't hold it in any longer.

"Oh, shut the fuck up, Mycroft." He growled at him, jamming one finger into the man's chest and pushing him back into the couch.

Usually Greg wasn't violent, or even quick to anger. Sherlock managed to press all the wrong buttons all at once, but he was the exception. But the past few months had been soul-crushing. His marriage of five years had ended. Sherlock Holmes had died. His job was in jeopardy. Perhaps a part of this anger was because he just needed to let it out on _someone, _but it was also because, in Mycroft's lies, he had lost one of the few allies he ever had.

"I – _excuse _me, Gregory?" Mycroft spoke at him, looking sincerely shocked. He had foregone his tea in favour of a tumbler of cognac, and now he set it on the table.

"Look, I _get _that it's supposed to be a secret. I get it. But you're the most powerful man in London, and you probably had a hand in all of this. Do you realize what you've _done, _Mycroft? You've _destroyed _John, you've _shattered _Molly, you've made the entirety of London believe that _Sherlock Holmes _was a _fraud. _You might figure, he's 'dead', what the _hell _does it matter, but it matters to the people who _knew _him, Mycroft, the people who _cared _about him, not that that includes you anymore. Because of _you, _Mycroft, Sherlock Holmes isn't _here _anymore. Bastard."

It wasn't as if Greg believed all that he was saying. Part of him honestly wondered if Mycroft could've kept this entire mess from happening, though. Then again, Greg probably had a hand in it. He had ordered the bloke's arrest, after all, and that still haunted him at night. But he wasn't going to back down now.

Mycroft looked as if Greg had struck him, but he didn't look angry. Instead he just looked down at his lap for a few seconds, smoothing down his trousers. He managed to get out a, "Gregory, please-" before Greg was off again.

"Not like we should have expected any differently. Look at you, you git, all alone in your house. You'll _always _be alone, because you let things like _this _happen. I used to think you were a brilliant bloke. You'd do anything to save your brother. But now, My? You're just a damn coward hiding behind your suits and behind your work. That's all you are. You'd stab him in the back to get a leg up. You'd do that to _any _of us. You're just an icy bastard who's going to die alone and surrounded by _nobody. He was your brother." _

That was just the stress talking, certainly. Even if Mycroft didn't do anything to stop Sherlock, Greg still thought him a good man. He'd trust him with his life in a heartbeat. But the entire few months had just been…awful, and he needed something to take it out on. Unfortunately, that had been Mycroft.

And Mycroft had taken the full brunt of it. Usually Mycroft would have argued back, or just plain kicked Greg out of his home. But, Greg supposed, the past few months had been hell for Mycroft, too. He had heard vaguely what had happened, because Mycroft wasn't keen on sharing his personal life. Sixteen to eighteen hour work days, trying to clear up Mycroft's messes. Even if he knew Sherlock was alive.

In the past few months, circumstances had changed so much that Greg could barely recognize himself anymore, and he couldn't even recognize the small, quivering man in front of him.

Mycroft looked up at him , his mouth shut. His eyes were bright and shining, and he looked, once again, as if Greg had physically hurt him.

His next action was completely odd and just a little bit traumatic for Greg.

He placed his head in both of his hands, and Mycroft Holmes started to sob. For a few seconds, Greg just stared at him in wide surprise, and then Mycroft started to talk.

"It's…it's _true!" _He sobbed into his hands, his entire body quivering. "When..when Moriarty had been captured, the only conversations that could make him speak were ones…concerning my _brother." _ Sniffling and sobbing, he looked up. Tears were flowing freely down his face, then. "It's because of me that my brother…oh, _Gregory, _I'm so sorry. You must believe me. I am so, so sorry for what I have done."

Oh.

_Fuck. _

Mycroft wasn't the type to fake tears. Hell, he wasn't sure Mycroft was even capable of producing tears. Even if they were faked, Greg had always been one to be taken in by them. His mouth opened in surprise and then he leaned forward to put a hand on the man's back. As soon as they made contact, the man in front of him sobbed harder.

"I must have drove him to such an action, Gregory. When he was younger, he…oh, he was so _infuriated _with life, and then I put him into that hellhole of a rehabilitation center, and he…he attempted…" At that, Mycroft abandoned all composure completely and grabbed Greg's shirt. He pressed his face there and held it there while Greg felt his shirt becoming soaked with his tears. "Whenever he feels as if he's backed into a corner, he thinks it's a viable alternative, and I…I gave that _devil _everything he needed to threaten him. He must have felt that there was no way out. Oh, _Gregory! I am miserable!"_

Mycroft thought Sherlock dead.

_Mycroft _thought Sherlock _dead. _

Both hands went automatically around Mycroft's shoulders, and Greg just hugged him close. Second time in twenty-four hours that Greg had hugged someone close to him, but, as he lowered his fact into Mycroft's hair, he realized he was crying, too.

He didn't know any reason why. But Greg was crying, albeit softly, into Mycroft's hair.

"I would do _anything _to resurrect him, Gregory, you must believe me. Please. I have very few allies left, much less actual _companions, _and…I cannot bear to lose the only one who is genuinely _fond _of me. Please, Gregory…please."

Greg crushed him to his chest, keeping his arms tight. An ocean of guilt washed over him, and he shut his eyes tightly. Hell. Oh, hell, hell, hell, hell, _hell. _

"Myc." He muttered to him, shaking his head. "You've got to listen to me. You've never been able to control anything that that man does. What he did, it had nothing to do with you. You understand? He would've wound up on that rooftop one way or another, and it's not worth anything to you to blame yourself for this. Nobody blames you. If John does, he's just upset. We all are; it was a shock. I'm right here, Mycroft. You'll always have me. Yeah?"

Mycroft shut his eyes and, for a full five minutes, his head was just placed firmly against Greg's chest. Then he leaned back and stared into Greg's face, before shaking his head. "You're crying, as well. My apologies. I didn't mean to…upset you."

"No. I mean." And, suddenly, Mycroft seemed to revert to normal. It was the oddest thing. One moment, he was sobbing harshly into Greg's chest, and then the next he was leaning back, eyes completely dry, looking back at Greg with such concern. "Rough couple of months, y'know. Wife. Sherlock. Job."

Mycroft nodded, and suddenly, one hand was going up to cup Greg's cheek. He felt awkward. "I can assure you that your job will not be lost. Beyond that, I'm afraid, I'm unable to do much of anything. I can only ask that you…make these visits of yours. They are quite helpful, though admittedly, I do not want you to tell anyone of my…minor lapse of composure."

Greg couldn't help it. He smiled and nodded, separating himself from Mycroft. "Of course not, Croft. It's okay. We're okay, you know? The two of us."

It was about then that Greg decided to tell him. Mycroft deserved to know, for his own safety's sake. The man had a horrible habit of bottling everything up inside him and then letting it explode, just like he had a few seconds ago. Plus he had a horrible habit of taking aggression. Didn't even say a word against Greg.

Greg realised only then how desperately, madly, insanely he wanted everything to go back to normal. He wanted to be able to recognise himself again, and more than that, he wanted to be able to recognise Mycroft. So he sighed and shut his eyes.

Had to tell him. Had to tell him.

His eyes shut, Greg offered a mumbled confession.


	3. Mrs Hudson

_(( Here we are again! I was a bit uncertain as to when to do a Mrs. Hudson chapter, because her character's so difficult to write! But I'm rather pleased with how this one came out, so I decided to put it up. Thanks everyone for all of your feedback, it really does mean a lot! Leave a review if you'd like, but if not, just enjoy the story!))_

As soon as Inspector Lestrade had told Mycroft that his brother was, indeed, alive, and what's more, explained how he did it, Mycroft immediately requested that he leave. No hard feelings, Mycroft promised him – indeed, Mycroft owed Lestrade quite a bit, and would he be so inclined to meet for tea on next Wednesday? All of this was offered with Mycroft's eyes still red, and his hands still shaking.

It was a temporary lapse of composure, and it would not happen again.

Of that, Mycroft swore to himself.

It was just all so _not good. _Mycroft Holmes planned the world according to his schedule, and it went accordingly. Every single person did what he thought they would do, and nothing went haywire. Only his brother had managed to upset such a system and complicate things. Nobody else was intelligent enough. Perhaps that was why Mycroft _did _care for his brother – in complicating his life, he provided mental challenges for Mycroft. It was a headache, perhaps, but Mycroft lived for what he did.

After all, without it, he was, as Inspector Lestrade said, just a man who lived alone.

He immediately regretted his outburst in front of Lestrade. Of course he was fond of the man. Lestrade was always sincere, always obvious, always authoritative in his methods. The man had turned out to be an unlikely source of comfort for Mycroft, because he was grieving in a way he thought he wouldn't grieve. He was grieving _normally, _for the first time in his life. Guilt and worry both stabbed at his heart, and Mycroft would have given anything for it to stop. How did normal people live with such violent emotions?

Regardless.

Now, there were things to do. Once Lestrade had left, he leaned forward and steepled his fingers in front of him, running them over his face. The emotions soon went away. Nothing had changed. Sherlock had fooled him. Mycroft was more intelligent than his brother in so many damn ways, but Sherlock had such a fondness for childish little _tricks. _

A text would likely suffice. Mycroft had no nervousness in his demeanor. He trusted those like Inspector Lestrade. If he had a dozen more like him in the NSY, then he would be a good whit less worried about the establishment. Besides, he thought to himself, Lestrade didn't have the intelligence to lie to him.

_Brother. M_

There. Simple, personal, to the point. Now there was only to wait. While Mycroft waited for the text, he put himself together again. A change of the suit, a text to Anthea to make sure that Lestrade's superiors weren't debating upon a sacking, and the putting away of the cognac. There would be no more of that. It was positively _plebeian, _for God's sake.

For all of Mycroft's composure, he still jumped a good mile when he heard the small ring from his mobile.

_You're growing slow. SH_

Oh.

_Oh. _

Oh, thank God. If Mycroft had been a less composed man, he would have broken down crying once more. Sherlock, his brother, was alive. Alive and _not dead. _He hadn't _killed _himself.

Perhaps he wouldn't have been so distraught if he hadn't been Mycroft's brother. A thousand memories had run through his head over the past few weeks, both the young innocent ones – _Sherlock, on his bum in the middle of a mud patch, bawling his eyes out because he'd gotten stung by a bee - _ to the ones that still entered the elder Holmes's dream at night – _A damn call from the rehabilitation center, saying that Sherlock had managed to swindle in a lethal dose of cocaine and- _

No. If he were to help Sherlock in any capacity, he would have to shove those sentimental memories aside. It wasn't difficult. Mycroft had been doing it, in one way or another, all of his life.

_My mind has been otherwise preoccupied. Taking into account, of course, that this isn't some stunt for John to marvel and gawk at, what is this all for? M_

Of course Mycroft had an idea, after Greg had explained it to him. Sherlock had finally become sentimental. Sacrificing himself, more or less, for the people that he loved. He could only be thankful that Sherlock had figured out a 'Plan B', so to speak, rather than just jumping off the building outright. Would he have, if he knew he were going to die? Really and truly die?

Mycroft didn't know.

_All will be revealed in due time. In the meantime, Mycroft, would you look after someone for me? I imagine he'll be quite distraught at my death, and I must confess, his absence _is_ proving more difficult for my thought process than I had initially predicted. My mind would be much set at ease if you watched him. SH_

It was, quite possibly, the longest conversation he had ever had with Sherlock Holmes over text. Sherlock, then, was lonely. He did, every once in a while. It was Sherlock Holmes's fatal flaw: love. It didn't occur often for him, but when it did, it hit the detective with such a magnitude and passion that he could do little else but stare at the object of his emotion.

_Of course. I will alert you if John suffers from anything serious. M_

_Thank you. SH_

_I apologise for any difficulties my death has caused. SH_

_You cause difficulties with every action you do, Sherlock. In the end, this is no different. Do stay safe. M_

That was about as fraternal as Mycroft would stoop. When they had been younger, he had been overbearing, sentimental, and that was why Sherlock detested him. He did not respond to him. Now, with the iciness and the distance, Sherlock would respond.

Once he had gotten himself ready, he made his way for 221 Baker Street.

It was a rainy and drizzly day in London. By the time he had reached the flat, he had instituted surveillance on a Ms. Hooper, an Inspector Lestrade, Sergeant Donovan, Technician Anderson, and soon, Ms. Hudson and a Dr. Watson.

There was a mild bit of surprise in his face as Mrs. Hudson opened the door instead of John Watson.

"Oh! Mycroft, what a surprise. How…nice of you to visit, dearie." Mrs. Hudson offered to him insincerely, glancing him over. Perhaps she was judging how Mycroft hadn't been present at Sherlock's funeral. Perhaps she merely remembered past difficulties. Or, perhaps, she was still grieving.

His eyes flicked over her regardless. It was an unconscious action, but from it, he could gleam more for her than Sherlock ever could. John had slept in her flat three nights out of the week this week, she had been making most of his meals, she had called her sister three times, her hip was acting up again, she had visited Sherlock's grave, she was grieving over him still.

"My apologies for such a rude intrusion, Mrs. Hudson." Mycroft spoke with the politeness needed by a politician, even offering her a polite smile. "I was merely wondering if I may come in. I had a few matters to discuss with Dr. Watson. Would he happen to be in?"

From there, he could see a war of emotion on Mrs. Hudson's face. Part of her, for whatever reason, wanted to send Mycroft away outright. Part of her was motherly to her core and wanted to let him in for a scone and a cuppa. And there was an all-too familiar look in her face that said she wanted to break down or blow up, that the stress was becoming too much for her, as well.

"He…he's out right now, but I'm sure he'll be back within the hour. I've just made biscuits. You may as well stay in and wait for him. Have you eaten? You're looking thin." Mrs. Hudson chastised him as Mycroft made his way inside the flat. He hadn't ever been in Mrs. Hudson's part of the building before, but he agreed willingly. If he was going to be keeping surveillance on both her _and_ John, then they should at least be on speaking terms. Even if they were on opposite sides of the spectrum.

As he made his way through her flat, he was struck by how many pictures he saw there. Mycroft's home was mercifully void of such sentiments, aside from a few lapses – there was an old Holmes family photo in the foyer, and in the more private parts of his house, where he dared not let any politicians in, there were even one or two of Sherlock. Perhaps even Dr. Watson made his way in.

Mrs. Hudson seemed to glorify in photos. There were ones of her sister, who appeared to be quite a well-traveled and exciting woman. There were ones of Dr. Watson. Most of the shots were candid, and thus contained John looking up in surprise from reading the newspaper, tapping away on the laptop, making tea. Inspector Lestrade was pictured infrequently, as was Ms. Hooper.

Most of all, he was surprised and a bit taken aback at the pictures of Sherlock there. There were ones from when he was younger (and still a cocaine addict, given the shadows under his eyes), but there were a great many more from recently. There was Sherlock with the damnable deerstalker. Him, leaning over case files while John talked at his side. Sleeping on the sofa. With his laboratory equipment on. Speaking with Lestrade. On the phone.

It struck him that Mrs. Hudson was treating Sherlock like he was her son. It wasn't dissimilar from a proud parent, sticking photos of their beloved child all over their wall. Even after his death, she hadn't removed them. Mycroft found himself looking over all of them far long than it was necessary, and eventually Mrs. Hudson appeared in the hall again.

"Oh, you're looking at my photos. When the hip gets too bad, I can't much go out. Sherlock and John are wonderful about it, the little loves. Now that Sherlock's gone, I might have to take some of these down. Too many memories. The look in John's eyes when he sees them…oh, dear." Mrs. Hudson murmured as she stood next to him, and Mycroft was stunned by how easily she mentioned Sherlock's death. Lestrade needed to be prodded, and he, himself, couldn't mention it easily.

"I see. It is rather kind of you to take Dr. Watson into account. I realise that this is not an easy experience for anyone." Mycroft soothed, tearing his eyes away from the photos. He didn't like them. Sometimes it was easy to think of his brother as a child, yet, one who merely wanted an audience to gawk upon his genius. These photos rounded him out a bit more, made him seem more of a human. A human who cared about John Watson and who slept on occasion and who drooled a little bit when he slept. It was a realization that he had tried to stamp out since he had left for University, all those years ago. It was so easy to objectify his younger brother, to paint him as a child, as someone who needed to be protected and shunned.

"Well, no, it isn't, but we have to help each other any way we can. Poor John's been in a daze for the past two weeks. He talks, of course, but…well, I expect you'll see." Mrs. Hudson chirped as she made her way into her small kitchen. As she did so, she put one hand up to her hip. It was troubling her again. Mycroft wanted to offer to help – after all, he _knew _people. He suspected she would doubt his sincerity, so he did not offer.

Mycroft sat in a chair and unbuttoned his jacket, staring at the quaint building. Of course he had run a quick background check on the woman, ever since he learned that she was going to be his brother's landlady. It was completely clean. Her husband had been a rather nasty piece of work, however, and Mycroft was secretly pleased that he was no longer living. "And how have you been coping, Mrs. Hudson?"

Mrs. Hudson twitched a bit as he asked the question, and then she merely started to bustle about the kitchen. Mycroft had raised a hand to offer to help, but she seemed to be a woman on a mission. The woman seemed born to be a mother, but Mycroft didn't know if she had any children. Pity if she didn't. "About as well as anyone else, Mycroft. It was just…a shock, you know. He seemed so _happy. _Maybe not with this…this _Moriarty _business he had on. That Moriarty wasn't good for him, you know. He got…odd around him. Not like his usual cases." Mrs. Hudson hesitated in her speech, unsure of how to proceed again. She said the next few words a bit louder than usual, almost as if in a burst of inspiration. "Determined, maybe. More so than his other cases. Like…like not being able to solve the thing would be the utter end of him. John and I tried to sit him down, tell him to take a break, but…especially towards the end, he just wouldn't. I imagine it was because he was thinking of…_oh, _I'm sorry, dearie…" Mrs. Hudson had started to tear up, and she reached for a tissue to dab delicately at her eyes. "It's just so hard to imagine him that way. I can't stand saying that he…he did that to _himself. _He seemed the last person in the world…then again, I suppose that's what they always say, isn't it?"

Mycroft offered her a tight-lipped smile and reached over to tap her hand reassuringly. "Of course, Mrs. Hudson. It is completely understandable. Grief is always a fickle thing, and one most bear it to one's own. May I inquire as to how Dr. Watson's doing?"

Mrs. Hudson seemed to take the change of subject gratefully as she put a few biscuits and a mug of tea in front of Mycroft.

Mycroft's damned diet.

He didn't take any. Of course he was sticking to it yet. In his younger years, he had found himself hideously overweight, and sent to rectify that immediately. Even now, he was uncertain about his appearance, but he had neither the time or sentimentality needed to obsess over it.

"John's been doing…I don't know. It's always so hard to tell with him. He's a soldier to his very core, I think. He'll come down for dinner with me once in a while. Can't get up the energy to cook. It's so hard on his poor leg, Mycroft, but he snaps at me if I tell him to use his cane. Sometimes I'll just go up there, and he's…sitting, just _staring _at all the little knick-knacks Sherlock's ferreted away. It's not healthy, Mycroft. Heaven strike down the person who says that I think he should move out, but…he can't keep looking around and see Sherlock at every corner."

In that moment, Mycroft felt a bit of kinship with the old woman.

Of course they were both grieving over Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft was grieving over a younger brother, although he hated to admit that he was. Mrs. Hudson was grieving over a son, but she had to keep it together for the man living upstairs. And, at the end, they both had to take care of other people before they took care of themselves. Again, Mycroft's hand went to cover her own, and Mrs. Hudson went to dab at her eyes again.

Oh, Mycroft would have killed for a mother like Mrs. Hudson when he was growing up. So much would have changed.

"Mrs. Hudson, I understand. I'm trying to help Dr. Watson get through this difficult time. It is never easy when a loved one dies." Now Mycroft was detaching himself from the situation. Offering meaningless soothing phrases. Mrs. Hudson seemed to accept them anyway, nodding her head up and down. "Thank you for helping him so. I have no doubt that he would be completely inconsolable if you had not tended to him. For that, Mrs. Hudson, you have my thanks."

Mrs. Hudson smiled at him then, pushing the plate of biscuits over to him. "Perhaps you're not as odd as I thought, Mycroft. Eat a biscuit. You're looking thin."

He wasn't positive when the decision to tell her came about. Perhaps it was her keen earnestness to help that made him, perhaps it was the desperate need to find another ally. Lestrade was a fantastic gentleman, but he didn't have the motherliness John needed to get through this all. Perhaps it was their shared purpose. Perhaps it was the way she put John before herself. Or perhaps Mycroft Holmes was just going mad.

Regardless, he took a biscuit and looked at her, offering the mumbled confession during chews.


	4. John

_(( Hi everyone! Fourth chapter, nearly at the end, now! I hope you all enjoy this one lots – it was a bit of a task to get through, and frankly, I'm glad it's nearly over. I do want to finish it, though, for sake's sake. Either way, enjoy!))_

As soon as Mycroft told her, Mrs. Hudson made a mild squeak. Mycroft then proceeded to tell her _how _he had done such a thing, and even managed to offer a theory as to why. Mrs. Hudson listened to it all in pale-faced solemnity. Once Mycroft seemed to finish, Mrs. Hudson merely sat back on her chair and stirred her tea. "Well."

A pause.

"I can't say I'm surprised. He always was rather funny that way, bless his little heart. Though I'll have a right row with him when he returns, mark my words, Mycroft. I'm too old for him to be doing things like this, you know. Though I imagine John'll want him before I do. You'd think he'd at least have the _common decency _to let his flatmate know. I swear, John's such a _gentle _man, and Sherlock's going to be the ruin of him, you know he will."

And yet Mrs. Hudson was _smiling, _and smiling wide. Mycroft saw behind that smile her perfect happiness, and Mycroft had no doubts that he had done the wrong thing. With that said, he stood up and brushed his trouser legs off. "I should hope not, Mrs. Hudson. Doctor Watson will be the making of my brother. That being said, I believe I hear the good man making his way up the stairs now. If you'll excuse me."

Mrs. Hudson gave a little tut – the man had only eaten one biscuit. Although she had listened as Sherlock complained about the man's invisible weight, she had never thought the man in need of a diet. She doubted anyone did. However, she let him go without much of an argument – whatever redemption Mycroft had given her today didn't mean that she trusted the man entirely. Too much like Sherlock without the kindness the younger man contained.

There were a few shared words upstairs – Mrs. Hudson couldn't tell exactly what they were. Then there was John's raised voice, and a smack large enough to make memories flood Mrs. Hudson's mind and to make her jump in her chair. A little while later, Mycroft walked down the stairs with a handkerchief pressed to his nose. Although Mrs. Hudson offered him help, he did not respond. There was only thing left to do, then.

After Sherlock's death (about two weeks prior, now), she and John had grown rather close. Initially, that had not been the case. John had shunned Mrs. Hudson completely, preferring to stay inside the flat. For the first day, Mrs. Hudson hadn't seen him come out. Indeed, for the next few days, he only went out when necessary, never stopping by or never offering a kind word to her.

It was especially difficult for Mrs. Hudson at night.

When Sherlock had been alive, everyone in the flat had been keenly aware of John's nightmares. Usually it was just heavy breathing that only reached Sherlock's ears, but sometimes it was full-out shouting. Mrs. Hudson had never seen worse nightmares with John than after Sherlock's death. It was heartbreaking. So, one night, when John had been unable to sleep, Mrs. Hudson had went up and invited him down to look at some old photo albums of hers. John had fallen asleep that way, and so, quite a few times, now, Mrs. Hudson would allow John to sleep in her flat. She didn't quite understand how it worked, but John slept without nightmares.

And, of course, it was especially soothing to have someone else in the flat. When Sherlock had been alive, Mrs. Hudson would often hear some sort of _sound. _Waking up to utter silence was a tad bit frightening to her.

She went up to the flat, brushing off the apron she had around her. "Now, John, I just saw him walk on by. I understand you're upset at him, but that's no need for violence."

"Sorry- so…so sorry." John sputtered about. He was cradling his hand close to his chest, and he looked utterly surprised at himself. His shock was so sincere that any annoyance Mrs. Hudson held against him vanished. She crossed over to him and patted his shoulder comfortingly.

"It's quite alright, dear. Times are what they are, you know. It was horribly impolite of him to come without at least calling first. Sit down, you've got yourself in a tizzy. You've cleaned up a bit, John, that's nice. Goodness knows the place needs it."

Single-handedly, Mrs. Hudson had calmed the Army man down, got him to sit down, and even ushered a faint smile from him. Anyone who thought Mrs. Hudson didn't know how to get things accomplished was a damn liar.

"Thanks. Just came at a bad time, Mycroft did. Not that I'm too keen on talking to him." John grumbled next to her, his hand going to rub at his knuckles. "Maybe later. I was just cleaning up the flat. Place is a bloody mess, you're right. I've just got to clean up the little things. Had to get the bloody knife out of the Cluedo board, took the headphones off the thing on the wall…"

It was heartbreaking. As John was speaking, Mrs. Hudson could nearly see the wall set up on him. An Army man, through and through. Mrs. Hudson had dated a few Army men, and they were all the same. Her lips pursed a bit and she nodded in conjunction with John. "I don't suppose you've any plans for it all, once you get it all together?"

John offered the woman a light smile. "Before I, er…punched him, Mycroft offered to take it all away. Right kind of him. Can't imagine why he'd want it, but I don't have any reason not to let him have it."

Mrs. Hudson knew why. It was rather obvious, actually. Mycroft was hoping that Sherlock would come back. Would come back and, hopefully, need his things again. She didn't know if that would happen. After all, she knew Sherlock – as big and intelligent as he was, there were times when he was tenderly fragile. He avoided emotional conflict. Why would he want to return from the dead to his best friend, then?

It was the most horrible feeling, knowing it. Sherlock was out there, somewhere, and not in 221B where he belonged. Although Mrs. Hudson didn't know how Sherlock thought of her, the boy might as well have been her son. Whatever happened, whatever she said, whatever he did, the boy would always be her son. And now her boy was out somewhere, doing God knows what. Sherlock didn't do well alone.

Some of her bridge friends asked her how on Earth her poor heart could take being Sherlock's landlady. Moreover, how was she so fond of him? There was a certain instinctual habit to it – Mrs. Hudson had always been motherly, loving, and broody. Sherlock, if nothing else, needed to be taken care of that. Beyond that, there had been the feeling, ever since she had met the man, that whatever happened to him, Mrs. Hudson would somehow be involved. The bonus of it all was that she was certain Sherlock would be there, if anything ever happened to her.

Oh. John was saying something. Best just to smile and pat his shoulder.

"Yes, yes, dearie. Don't fret over it. You've enough to worry about, you know. I'd offer to help you with all this rubbish, but…my hip, you know." Mrs. Hudson gave a smile at him, and then it occurred to her.

She should tell John.

It was awfully unfair, him being the only one not to know. Especially since he was the one person, if any of them, that deserved to know. Besides, this was almost physically painful. John was doing _it _again, just staring at the knick-knacks Sherlock had squirreled away. He had the most pained look in his eyes, and his hand trembled at his side. Mrs. Hudson immediately went over to put a hand on his back.

"I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson. No need to worry."

"Of course, dearie, of course." Mrs. Hudson murmured, immediately standing up and pressing her hands against her hips. She had to tell him. Of course Mycroft had sworn her to secrecy, but she had never been much of a fan of that man. Really, she only allowed him about because he was Sherlock's brother, and she was so keen on getting them in each other's good graces. So she cleared her throat and nodded once.

"John, dear? Sherlock's alive."

…

Mycroft hadn't been angry, either when John punched him or when John had called him, announcing that he knew the entire story. There was a sense of joy all throughout Mycroft that couldn't be squashed, now. Sherlock was _alive. _Oh, that clever, clever boy. John could have killed him at that moment, and Mycroft wouldn't have even spoken a bad word against him. When John called him, however, he didn't express any surprise or shock. He was confronted only with a blunt earnestness. The purpose of his call was simple enough. _Sherlock needed to come home. _

Initially, Mycroft had argued. Of course he understood why Sherlock was away, and John did, too. John didn't seem to care. So, for the first time in his life, Mycroft had heard John _beg, _and Mycroft soon felt he was faced with no choice. After all, if he refused a plan for John, John would just do something stupid and childish on his own. Something that would get him killed, and, by proxy, get Sherlock killed.

It took him approximately twenty minutes for him to think of a plan to get the man back. Sherlock couldn't have worn his heart on his sleeve, after all.

_John's dead, brother. It's time for you to come home. I'm sorry. M_

A delay. Mycroft had the inkling that Sherlock was just looking at his mobile in shock, rather than not being around the device. There was no feelings of guilt or remorse. One of the Holmes brothers had to be able to distance himself, after all.

_Why would I need to come back? SH_

_He said goodbye to you. I believe you owe him the same. M_

Mycroft leaned back on his chair. In the meantime, he sent texts to Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and John – calling would have been easier, but he wanted to stay by in case Sherlock decided to text him again. They understood the plan and they were off accordingly, fulfilling their roles. This was similar to Mycroft's _job – _putting himself the head of some elaborate plan and watching the others dance.

_I'll be on the next plane. I should be in London within twenty-four hours. Would you tell Molly to free her extra room? SH_

_I shall. Farewell. M _

Sitting back, Mycroft realised that his role was done. Everyone else merely had their jobs to do, and Mycroft hoped with all of his heart that they weren't the idiots he believed them to be.

…

Lestrade had had a taste of the illegal side of the Yard before. Hell, he worked with Sherlock. Sherlock had introduced himself to a darker side of both the Yard and London. Darker than the side he had previously envisioned. This, however? This made him feel a little bit sick to his stomach.

Faking John Watson's death.

Mycroft had asked him to play the appropriate part. Sherlock would likely suspect some sort of trick – after all, only two weeks and John Watson was dead? It seemed improbable. So, Mycroft told him, Sherlock needed to believe there was a crime scene. Finding the appropriate paperwork was easy enough for it, and John had temporarily loaned his gun for the cause. Greg placed some fingerprints on it (unidentifiable, according to the computer, but really belonging to one of the John Does in the morgue), and tagged it and bagged it.

It was child's play. Frighteningly easy to do.

The official cause of death was 'homicide by unknown persons'. If pressed, Greg would say that someone had obviously broken into 221B and shot John with his own Army revolver. Mrs. Hudson, thankfully, was out at the time. There was nothing that could have been down. Kindly send flowers to his sister, Harriet Watson.

He finished up the paperwork and quickly filed it. There. Now, if Sherlock wanted to get someone to find out the truth for him, the paperwork would be filled out and easily accessible. As soon as he turned it away, though, he just leaned forward and tried to fight the queasy feeling in his stomach.

It _shouldn't _have affected him like this. After all, it was just fake. On paper. Yet Greg couldn't help but get the feeling that he had just killed John Watson, and he gagged a few times. Nothing came up. He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands on his stomach, trying to calm himself.

How ironic, then, that the _only _use Mycroft had for him was paperwork.

…

Molly was ecstatic.

Mycroft had had a _plan _to make Sherlock come _home. _

Yes, of course, there'd probably be some emotional trauma involved for Sherlock, and he would just want to spend his time with John, but he would be coming _home. _He'd bumble around the morgue again and compliment her lipstick and occasionally throw her a few looks of apologetic fondness.

Oh, it was _brilliant. _

The past few days, she'd been wearing high turtlenecks to hide the light scar on her neck. Nobody had much asked her what had happened to her, because the majority of the people she conversed with were dead. Dead didn't bother much with fashion.

Mycroft had texted her, in his usual pompous, informed way about what she was to be doing. It wasn't difficult, in all respect.

Try to find a man that was the same height and weight as John Watson. Hair colour would be optimal, as well. Beyond that, she was supposed to simply stand back and let Mycroft's men do their work. So that was what Molly did – there had been a man in. Lovely old gentleman, from all accounts. Worked his job faithfully when, at roughly John's age, he'd just had a heart attack and keeled over. Terrible tragedy, really.

A few hours later, when Mycroft's men all started to head out, Molly returned to look at the body. When she saw it, she was amazed.

The man was a splitting image of John Watson. Frightening, really. He even had the same scar on his shoulder. Every detail seemed to be in place.

That was that, then. The only thing left to do was call John Watson, tell him to come, and tell him to hurry.


	5. Sherlock

_((At the end of another story! I really hope you guys like this one – I was inspired for another one about halfway through the fourth chapter and I hope to get at least one chapter down before I head off for a week. Anyhow, I really hope you like it! Read a review if you want!))_

When Mrs. Hudson had told him, John didn't know what to say.

It was just all so ridiculous. Sherlock, alive. Over the past few weeks, John had slowly started to form a new kind of normal. One where he woke up to absolute silence. One where he didn't have to clean up after Sherlock, and yet oddly missed doing so. One where he would sit in the flat for hours on end, simply because he didn't have anything to do.

Mrs. Hudson had been a brilliant help to it all. Sometimes John felt like he was being coddled, but Mrs. Hudson needed to coddle. John managed to keep his masculinity by saying that he was merely letting Mrs. Hudson grieve in her own way, but that wasn't indicating that John didn't enjoy every breakfast tea and light lunch he shared with her.

He shared his worries with Lestrade over a pint. Sometimes he would reminisce about Sherlock with Molly. He hadn't spoken to Mycroft – hell, two days ago, he had punched the stupid bugger in the nose. He couldn't bring himself to apologize, either, now that he knew the truth.

Oh, the plan had better bloody work.

John wasn't childish. This wasn't a case of 'See how _I'm _feeling right now, Sherlock'. It was logic, supplied by the always logical Mycroft. Sherlock was out to protect John and his friends. If John were to die, Sherlock would have no reason to stay out. Of course, John wasn't keen on actually dying. He was brave, not a sadist.

His breath was taken away when he saw the body. He was half-tempted to call up his Mum and ask why the she she hadn't told him about his identical twin brother. However, the aim wasn't to _fool John. _It was to fool someone much more brilliant.

And, at the same time, someone much more stupid.

John wasn't _angry _at Sherlock, per se. He figured he would reach that point when he actually saw him, safe and sound. Perhaps there was a bit of an idea, at the back of his mind, that this was just some elaborate, albeit cruel, joke.

Mostly, however? He felt _nervous. _

Seeing Sherlock again? After he had buried him? It wouldn't be a fun experience.

Sometimes he wondered how he had gotten mixed up in all of this. Just a few years ago, he was Captain John Watson, returning from Afghanistan. He had no friends in the world, nobody who worried over him, nobody who drove him insane. He had a sister, yes, but a sister whom he hated. Mike Stamford was just around. It had been proper coincidence that they had met.

All of the people he had liked were still on tour, and would be for a long time. All John had was a therapist. Rather pathetic, when he thought about it like that.

Then he had met _Sherlock. _Sherlock, who was so effusive, brilliant, _strange _that he didn't quite seem real. It had been like a dream. That didn't necessarily mean that John was happy with him all of the time, or that they didn't have their issues, but it was like interacting with a bloody _character _in a _book. _

A few weeks ago, John had felt like he had gotten to the last page. The protagonist was dead, and it was all over. John had to go back to being John Watson, M.D., once more.

He sat in the flat for a good few hours, almost until he was going to be late for the big reveal. There was the slightly shallow idea of what to wear – and then he realized Sherlock probably wouldn't give a damn. So he just packed his gun on him, just in case, and headed off to the morgue.

…

Sherlock was dying.

Not physically, of course. Although he had a few more marks than he was usually accustomed to, and he had been eating a bit less, he was physically the same he had always been.

No, there was a strange sort of mental deadness. It was pathetic, and sentimental, and yet Sherlock didn't know how to stop it.

John was dead.

John was dead, and the sun still shone, and the flowers still bloomed, and everyone went about their merry way as if the world was still a good place. That murderers and rapists didn't exist, and they were all as safe as they wanted to be.

Not that Sherlock believed he would never be happy without John. They were friends, of course. Best friends. Sherlock would do anything for him (and, rather, he believed he had). However, he was still just a man, and Sherlock had others to protect. That was what drove him. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly. He needed to protect them, too.

Even that mental drive didn't stop the weight upon his chest.

John. John, John, John. The name was bellowed throughout the halls of his Mind Palace. It threw furniture and upended chairs. It ruffled books and smashed glass. Moreover, it created too much _noise, noise, noise _for Sherlock to think properly.

The worst part, of course, was John's section of the mind palace.

He didn't know what to do with it. Nostalgia was a chemical defect, and it wouldn't do. Sherlock knew that his mind palace was just in his mind, not a physical place. Rationally, he should've just…forgotten about it.

He couldn't. John was the punctuation of every thought.

So he thought that perhaps he could _trick _his mind into getting rid of John's rather large section. So he tried burning it. He tried shoving it under water. He tried blowing it up. None of it worked. Scarred and mangled, John was _still there _in Sherlock's mind, and Sherlock feared that John would be like a black hole. He would suck in everything that Sherlock was and leave him a hollow, grieving shell.

Hell, his brother always said he had the heart of a philosopher.

He did owe John. He had to see the body, at least. Perhaps even to say his goodbyes. He hoped Molly wouldn't be present at such an event. After all, at least John had the luxury of giving his goodbye speech to Sherlock in solitude.

Oh, _London. _She welcomed Sherlock back into her arms in a warm embrace. It soothed Sherlock's roaring mind, if not completely silencing it. Of course he couldn't stay long – no, that would be too good for him. _London _would always remain his Utopia. A place where he had Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and John and cases and his violin.

Soon, St. Barts pulled into view. There remained no indication that a man had fallen from it just weeks before. Sherlock wondered if everyone had forgotten about him yet. Doubtful. London loved Sherlock Holmes, and yet they all prayed that he wasn't more intelligent than the rest.

He had purchased a baseball hat. It was dreadful. Better than the deerstalker, certainly, but his curls poked out from underneath it. If anyone stared him in the face, it would be obvious that the deceased detective was walking again. Already he had some people staring at him. One had been brazen enough to point at his likeliness to the dead man, and Sherlock had just laughed him off.

The morgue was empty when he got there. For a few seconds, Sherlock just stood there awkwardly. It remained just as he had remembered.

"_Sher-_lock!" Molly Hooper cried out when she saw him, and soon, Sherlock was engulfed in a tight hug. At first, he just stiffened up – physical contact didn't exactly mean loving tenderness lately. However, upon realizing who it was, he wrapped his arms around the young girl.

"Ah, yes, Molly. I trust you've heard…the news." Sherlock spoke in a rasp. Almost as if to comfort himself, he pressed Molly's head against his chest, holding her there for a few seconds. He needed the comfort. He needed someone to _comfort _him. Even though his brain wouldn't allow such a thing, he wanted someone to tell him that it would be all okay.

"Right. Yes. Of course. It's…it's really a shame, wasn't it? John was such a nice man. "

"I…Indeed. May I see the body, Molly? I can only stay for a little while, you understand. I cannot risk being noticed."

"Sure. I'll give you a bit of privacy. Bit of privacy's always nice."

Molly pulled out one of the long examination tables. Sherlock's mind was in such an uproar that he didn't notice the slight scar on Molly's neck, nor the way her hand kept grabbing for her mobile. His eyes were completely focused on the table in front of him.

Molly had left him as soon as she had gotten John out. Sherlock looked at the figure, covered by the thin tarp offered as privacy. His hand lingered on the material, seeing John's figure loom from beneath it. Then he took a deep breath and pulled it back.

Oh, dear _God. _

Sherlock had had nightmares like this. The coming of John had also accompanied the coming of nightmares. Once he had started caring about John (and, of course, caring about others), there had come the nightmares about losing him. Sherlock had had this nightmare many times ago, but the light aching in his chest told him that he wasn't dreaming.

That was John's face. John's warm, caring, _human _face. It was put in a stiff frown, not unlike the ones Sherlock had seen on him before when he was annoyed at him. However, this was different.

John would never wake up again.

His John would never pad down the stairs carefully, unsure about whether his leg would be hurting or not.

Dear John would never make tea again, and call up the stairs asking if Sherlock wanted any.

His dear John would never live again.

A choked, strangled sound left his mouth. His pale digits stroked John's cheek, as if to make sure the man was really there. His Mind Palace was breaking to pieces around him. Such an instrumental piece had fell – his _John _had fell – and now the entire place had nothing to support it. He was falling.

"J-John." He whispered, both fingers going to clutch at the end of the table. "Oh, John…to see you this way…" A pause, and a swallow. Something needed to be said, as there would be no attending of the funeral. "You were…you _are _my best friend. You are the only person who has ever shown genuine fondness, caring, _warmth…_towards me. For that, I still cannot answer why, as your fondness of me has grown from simple admiration." A heady intake of breath – it broke halfway through. "I would have brought London to its feet if it meant keeping you safe, John, and believe me, how hard I tried…I would have done anything to keep you safe, John, and I…"

Liquid hit the cool metal of the table. Sherlock would never admit that he was crying.

"I simply wasn't good enough. I was not brave enough, nor heroic enough. Such antics…" A small, heartbroken smile touched his lips. "Are best left to you, it seems."

His fingers tightened on the edge of the table, and he shook his head. That was all he could say. His throat had completely closed, and it took all of his strength just to breathe. He put the material back over John's face, shaking his head and turning away to walk out. The back entrance would be taken – he couldn't deal with Molly in such a state.

There was a sniff.

Immediately Sherlock went on alert. There was somebody here.

Silence.

A step.

"_Who's there?" _Sherlock tried to say, but it didn't come out. The only thing he could get out was a dry grunt.

"You're…you are an _utter _bastard. Sherlock-"

And suddenly, John was there, and John was stepping forward, and two strong arms were around Sherlock, and he was being held close.

Sherlock didn't know what was happening, but he had theories. One, of course, that he had died. Two being that he had a heart attack, and this was merely his brain's way of dealing with the pain.

And the third, most obvious – John was alive.

If Sherlock could come back from the dead, why not John?

Sherlock immediately hugged John back. It was a desperate sort of hug. His arms fit snugly around John's neck and he was squeezing the man close. He could feel the outline of the man's face against his shirt, and suddenly, John's hair was becoming damp.  
It was the most funny thing, really. As soon as John touched him, and reassured him that he was really alive, Sherlock's mind was _on. _Everything was rebuilt, and more alive and more vivid than ever. Sherlock could remember the middle name of the client he had two years ago, and he knew how many people were in the hotel he had left that morning. It was as if John, in the most metaphorically sentimental way possible, had rebuilt his Mind Palace with one hug.

"You're…you're…_John, _why would…oh, John…" Sherlock wasn't even able to make basic sentences, anymore. He just held John to his chest and nuzzled the man's hair.

"We had to get you back, Sher-" John sniffed a bit and Sherlock managed to see that he was holding back tears, as well. "Mycroft…Mycroft mentioned that you might be out because you were trying to protect p-people . We thought that you'd…come back if one of them were…hell, Sherlock. Hell."

"We?" Sherlock muttered against John, still holding him close. The doppelganger was next to them and somewhere he could hear Molly sniffling in the distance.

"Everyone knows. Every single bloody person that cares about you Sherlock. We all know."

Strangely enough, Sherlock wasn't angry. Granted, he wasn't pleased, either. Sometime he would sit Molly Hooper down and have a _very _serious talk. Now, however? He was hugging John, and John was hugging him, and Sherlock felt so happy at that one moment he felt as if he could burst.

"You're my best friend, too. For the record." John mumbled into his chest. His arms were tight against Sherlock's waist. "And if you ever do anything that stupid again, I'm going to murder you. For real this time, none of this bloody magic stuff."

Sherlock gave a fake disdainful sniff. "_Magic? _You wound me, John. I must explain to you how I did it, later. Sentiment aside, it was rather impressive."

"I know, Sherlock, I know."


End file.
